


A Deadly Game of Cat and Also Cat

by Dandybear



Category: The Incredibles (2004)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, F/M, Helen Parr is a stone cold badass and not your manic pixie mommy figure, It was all a set up AU, Let's Talk About The Military Industrial Complex, Open Marriage, Time Hops around a lot, Whoops I dropped my Monster Headcanon for my Magnum Femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15323808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandybear/pseuds/Dandybear
Summary: Evelyn’s smile is slow, not the usual one, this one is devious. It’s like if a smile felt the same way melted chocolate tastes. Helen’s just as tempted to run her tongue along the former as the latter.“Well, that’s up to you, Helen. Want to continue our game of cat and mouse? I steal the cheese, you catch me, you let me go, the world keeps on spinning.”Helen wrinkles her nose and squints, either from the strength of her drink or the words coming out of Evelyn’s mouth, “Why would you return to a life of supervillainy when you’re not evil and you’ve already accomplished your goal?”“Because, Hel, playing with you is so much fun,” Evelyn raises her glass.Or:A timeline of Helen Parr's bisexuality, marriage, and supervillain nemesis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually post anything this short if it's incomplete, but I feel like fan interest in this pairing has a short life, so here's something to whet the appetite while I work on the rest of it.
> 
> This is rated M for eventual sexytimes. This is also a place where we love and respect Robert Parr, so expect no assault on his character, or anyone's really. Just the most feasible way I can see me being able to have and eat my Hevelyn cake.
> 
> It'll also be a character study of Helen Parr and exploration of the Incredibles universe, so if you're just here for a quick femslash fix, then I'm sorry. There's gonna be substance.
> 
> Title is a reference to The Venture Brothers.

**November, 1962. The Deavor Household.**

It shouldn’t feel this normal. This easy. She shouldn’t feel drawn to the other woman’s orbit like some kind of passing comet. (The metaphor comes from helping Dash with his science fair project.) She should be angrier. She should be livid right now.

Instead, Helen feels the tension roll out of her spine.

Evelyn Deavor looks good. Better than when Helen last saw her. Granted, last time, the woman had streaks of black mascara coating her cheekbones from free falling out of a plane and a decidedly crazed look in her eyes.

This is the Evelyn that Helen felt an instant connection with. This is the Evelyn Deavor whose raspy voice made itself at home in Helen’s ear. The woman with the slow smile and hooded eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Helen, I was hoping you’d visit now that all the unpleasantness is out of the way,” she says.

That’s what sets Helen off, her voice is hoarse and harsh, “You went after  _ my children _ .  _ My family _ , Evelyn.”

Evelyn closes her eyes and knits her eyebrows together.

“Do you know what a trust fall is?” she says.

“Don’t change the subject!”

“I’m not. I’m sorry for sending the supers after your family. It was deemed necessary at the time, I only ask that you give me five minutes to explain myself--and likely to confirm some suspicions you’ve been having. If you think I’m full of crap then you’re free to go. No questions asked,” Evelyn sets down her scotch glass to spread her hands wide, a peace making gesture.

“Talk,” Helen spits.

She folds herself almost in half, folded arms, crossed legs, as if she is pulled upwards on a tight string.

“Do you know what a trust--”

“Yes! I know what a trust fall is!”

Evelyn doesn’t look annoyed, if anything she looks amused. It’s infuriating.

“It’s a test of trust, falling backwards and expecting the other person to catch you.”

Helen huffs, “You knew I was going to catch you before you hit the water. You could’ve made it easier for me, almost broke my nose.”

Winston chimes in, “Perception.”

“Had to make it convincing, believe me, damaging your cute nose was difficult,” Evelyn flirts with that ease Helen is tempted to slip back into.

Helen glares instead. Evelyn sighs.

“I trusted you to thwart my plan.”

“Just like with Screenslaver,” Helen says.

“Same thing. Had to make it look good, and when you wanted to go further.. when you wouldn’t let it go, I had to give you a supervillain worthy of that big, beautiful brain of yours.”

Winston makes a noise and Evelyn shoots him a look. It’s the first time Helen has ever seen the chipper man roll his eyes in exasperation.

“I have a phone call to make, ladies. Helen, good to see you as always. Evie, dinner at  _ Bela’s _ tonight? Okay! Try not to break any furniture,” he announces.

His nose parts Evelyn’s hair when he bends to press a kiss to her head. She smooths invisible lint off his suit and waves him away with a hand. Winston picks at his hands, nervous, as he gives Helen a parting nod.

“You’re telling me that everything I did while working for you was a set up. Some kind of orchestrated… publicity stunt?!” Helen says.

Evelyn blinks slowly, “Well, the petty crime you stopped was real. But, come on, Helen, I’m sure you’ve been looking back at everything through a magnifying glass. Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

“You designed the train. You were able to pull up the specs pretty quickly, considering it was brand new technology and the plans weren’t made public until a week later. That, and I found your blueprints in the Screenslaver’s lair. The helicopters were yours too?”

“Just the screens. I made a few tweaks on the controls as well, set them to military standard--closer to the planes you’re used to flying.”

Helen is quiet, so Evelyn continues.

“It was good TV, wasn’t it? Big set pieces, daring rescues, leaping into action? Sounds like something out of  _ Flash Gordon _ . Only our star was doing the whole thing without a script. You really are… well… Incredible,” Evelyn’s eyes shine.

Helen gets up, pacing back and forth.

“This is… this is a lot, Evelyn. I can’t believe you manipulated me?! And for what gain? Are you for Supers? Is this part of some bigger plan?!” Helen’s arm gestures are jerky and dangerous due to stretching.

“What I’m telling you is what Winston did during our first meeting. We did everything we could to secure the re-legalization of superhero activity, and it worked.”

Evelyn crosses her legs, looking smug, and takes a sip of her drink.

“It could’ve been done other ways! We could’ve petitioned, taken a legal battle to the Supreme Court!” Helen huffs.

Evelyn leans forward on her knees, for the first time looking as drawn and tired as Helen expected.

“You and I both know that this country doesn’t change on a dime for reason and fairness. If you want change, real concrete change, you need a strawman, and you need fear. I needed to be more scary than a bit of damage to City Hall,” she says.

It takes the anger out of Helen, “There’s the cynic,” she says with a bittersweet smile.

Evelyn mirrors it and Helen reaches across the room to run a thumb over the other woman’s chin. Evelyn closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

“You’re the strawman,” Helen whispers.

“I made myself into one, yes. Hard to agree with the woman who took a group of world leaders captive for her own dastardly plans.” Evelyn stands, dusting herself off.

“But you made good arguments. Aside from the kidnapping and attempted murder,” Helen says.

“Those last two are the only things that will stick in the public’s mind. It’s like my brother said, perception. They saw the heroes beat the villain, and thus anyone who disagreed with the legalization became a villain by association. Or, so Winston thinks, he’s the people person, not me,” Evelyn finishes her drink with a shrug.

“Did he plan this?” Helen sounds betrayed.

Evelyn makes a neutral hand gesture, “He ironed out the kinks that would require human feedback. He asked not to be involved in any of the actual villainy for two reasons. One, he really doesn’t have the stomach for endangering people, and two, he wouldn’t be able to react convincingly if he knew. He’s a good liar and public speaker, but not when it comes to danger. You’d know if he was faking it.”

Helen flops back into her chair, feeling the weight of the knowledge sit down on top of her. She laughs without any humour, just a huff of breath.

“Drink?” Evelyn says.

“Evie, it’s noon.”

Evelyn sways the bottle temptingly. Helen looks from under her lashes as she nods.

“I was right,” she says.

“You were right,” Evelyn says.

“Now what?” Helen says.

Evelyn’s smile is slow, not the usual one, this one is devious. It’s like if a smile felt the same way melted chocolate tastes. Helen’s just as tempted to run her tongue along the former as the latter.

“Well, that’s up to you, Helen. Want to continue our game of cat and mouse? I steal the cheese, you catch me, you let me go, the world keeps on spinning.”

Helen wrinkles her nose and squints, either from the strength of her drink or the words coming out of Evelyn’s mouth, “Why would you return to a life of supervillainy when you’re not evil and you’ve already accomplished your goal?”

“Because, Hel, playing with you is so much fun,” Evelyn raises her glass.


	2. at arm's length

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen and Winston do some Nancy Drew-ing, Bob has body issues, and Helen is Not Having An Affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this has canon errors it's because finding an index of information on The Incredibles is surprisingly hard??? Like?? The Wiki is mostly stubs. I will pay someone $20 to make info more readily available so I don't have to stop typing every five minutes to fact check or look for a timeline. God damn. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment. The support just for the first chapter is really heartwarming. Thanks for sticking with me. I hope y'all like it.
> 
> (Timeline wise, Bob's newspaper in The Incredibles says May 16, 1962. Brad Bird says there's a three month gap between the Island and Dash's track meet, moving that to mid/late August depending on enrollment times. I put most of the events of I2 in September because it doesn't feel like more than a few weeks. So, it may be fudging some numbers, but it's in the ballpark. Woo! Math. Welcome to California where the temperature is made up and the seasons don't matter!)

**October, 1962. The Mansion currently housing the Parr family.**

“It just feels too clean,” Helen announces to the ceiling.

“What does? The sheets? I read the label, but I could tell it was probably too much.”

“The sheets are fine, Bob. It’s not the sheets, it’s the case.”

“Still slaving over Screenslaver, Honey? It’s been a month,” Bob yawns.

“It just wrapped up so tidily! I wish I had the evidence from that apartment building so I could go over everything and check what I missed,” Helen huffs.

“Or you could always just talk to Evelyn.”

Helen pauses and turns almost mechanically to look at Bob. He’s got his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose and is still on the same page of his book. She opens her mouth because she’ll be ready with a retort as soon as her brain turns back on.

“What? You two chatted a lot when you were working together and she’s clearly full to the brim of ideas. Very easy to get monologuing,” he says.

“Bob, I don’t know,” she says, twisting the sheets.

Helen’s a chef’s salad of mixed emotions right now and Bob can’t say he’s enjoying sampling each one, but he is dedicated to helping her work through them. Shame is heavy. Helen always takes the lion’s share of duty, and blames herself twice as much as should for it.

“Helen, it’s not your fault that you got duped. I got duped. I was blinded by my own nostalgia, you were blinded by...” Bob looks for a delicate way to put it.

“Don’t even say it,” she growls.

“Say what? A pretty face and a good cause?”

“Robert.”

“Honey, I’m not mad! I insisted on including The Loophole in our marriage for a reason,” he says.

“Yeah, I just never thought I’d be the one using it!”

“You might not, just because there’s a… chemistry doesn’t mean you have to act on it. But, I do expect a full apology to and about Mirage,” he says.

“I’m sorry for suspecting you of having an affair with a woman at work when you were just running around for a super villain.”

Bob sets down his book and glasses, enjoying the space between words. He looks at Helen out of the corner of his eye, smirk barely contained.

“Now, say I do it better,” he teases.

Helen pushes him onto his back and straddles him.

“ _I do it better_ ,” she growls.

He laughs.

 

* * *

 

**October, 1962. Deavor Manor.**

The house is nice. The kind of house you’d find old money living in. Turn of the last century architecture, nice central location. Old trees in the yard. It’s the last single residence of a neighbourhood being turned into luxury condos and public parks.

“Come in, come in,” Winston greets her at the door.

Helen takes the warm hug. He looks tired, but pleasant. Today’s suit is black with a purple sheen. It reminds her of hooded eyes and dark lipstick. Helen says nothing.

“It’s more mausoleum than house I’m afraid. We hire a maid for upkeep, but neither of us have wanted to set foot in the place since Father died.”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t have to bring me here, Win,” she squeezes his arm.

“No! No, I wanted to. It’s good to come back. Good for perspective,” he sits gingerly in a chair covered by a sheet.

The house is beautiful on the inside. Wood polished to a red sheen, plush carpets, and heavy drapes. It makes Helen think of gothic heroines. Unbidden, the image of Evelyn beneath a black parasol looking like some kind of Countess comes into her head. Helen winces.

“How have you been?” Helen says.

“Busy. Everything’s easier when it’s noisy,” he gives a weak smile.

“I get what you mean,” she clears her throat, “So, it’s upstairs?”

“Oh! Right, yes. Here, let me,” he gets back up.

The stairwell is lined with photographs of generations of Deavors. Helen pauses on a creaky stair to look at a picture from when Evelyn and Winston were kids. Halloween. One girl vampire and one boy mummy. The gothic heroine image returns in full force. Evelyn in some kind of drapey nightgown and blanket, holding a candlestick and facing down creatures of the night. She needs to get her imagination in check. She’s a strategist, not some kind of novelist. What is this harlequin trash her brain keeps spitting out?

“Very cute,” she says, realizing she’s been staring without saying anything.

“We always made our own costumes, Evie’d help me with mine,” Winston says.

Little Evelyn using a stool to stand high enough to wrap her big brother in gauze. Helen feels her face go soft and tightens her jaw to pick up the slack.

“Here we are,” Winston announces.

He holds out a skeleton key, but it proves unnecessary, the door isn’t locked. It swings open with little prompting.

Evelyn’s childhood room has the quiet of an abandoned house, but there’s a feeling that if she makes too much noise then everything will shatter. Finally, her investigative brain takes the reins from her ripe imagination and starts picking out details.

Even with housekeeping, there’s a pattern of dust disrupted once her eyes reach the desk. It was used recently. The chair isn’t flush with the desk, like it wasn’t pushed in all the way. There’s an extension cord that leads innocuously from the wall to the closet and a clicking noise that triggers the minute they walk in.

“Winston, stay back,” Helen shields him with her body.

She waits for ticking, she waits for beeping. Instead, she hears the canned voice of a doll.

 _“I love my Mommy!”_ it’s voice comes from the closet.

“God, is she a serial killer?” Helen clutches her chest.

“She said killing people is too messy,” Winston replies casually.

Helen laughs a little hysterically.

Inside the closet gives the glimpse she was hoping for. The baby doll is the first thing in view. Attached to its face is a note that says, “smile for the camera”.

“Are you sure? She’s doing a fantastic job of creeping me out,” Helen says.

“You should see how theatrical she gets on Halloween,” Winston jokes.

Helen puffs out her cheeks.

It’s a closet. It has stacks of boxes and paper tubes. Leftovers from Engineering school. A box labelled ‘Mom and Dad’.

With precise care she removes the top box. It has no label and is a darker colour of cardboard than the others. Less time spent fading.

Winston hovers over her shoulder, trying not to look nervous.

It could have nerve gas. It could have cyanide or rat poison.

Helen holds her breath as she opens the box.

Her own smiling face stares back at her in faded black and white. Helen exhales, pulling open the remaining tabs of the box. She doesn’t recognize the poster, but it makes her laugh.

Before the NSA and before the war even, she wore a suit out of her dad’s old parachute. It was the only fabric long enough she could get her hands on, and even then, she needed to repair it each week. Elastigirl got the reputation for looking like a circus tent.

Winston lifts it with a kind of reverence, “She used to have one like this on her wall--don’t tell her I told you. She’d be mortified.”

“I thought Evelyn hated Supers.”

“Not before Father’s death, in fact, she was a big fan of yours.”

Helen digs deeper into the box. Her breathing gets caught somewhere in her chest.

Everything is in here. Everything. The enlistment form she filled out when she was 20, dated _January 1, 1942_ . A story about a heroic pilot who rescued an entire squadron from a plane crash. Honourable discharge for Helen Truax. Her grades from college, the abandoned dream of an Arts Degree. Transcripts of interviews dated _1947_. A newspaper clipping announcing the marriage of Robert and Helen Parr. Other newspaper clippings talking about flawless rescues by Elastigirl. A girl saved from a car crash is circled in red. An apartment building with faulty smoke detectors had the alarm set off and families saved, because Elastigirl was swinging by.

The timeline of her life as a hero laid out in front of her, Helen panics.

She shoves the box away, breathing heavily.

Emboldened by the lack of traps, Winston gets out a second box in the stack. He opens it, still wincing and leaning away, because it would be like Evelyn to lure them into a false sense of security.

“Oh, no. This one’s fine too,” he exhales in relief.

Helen doesn’t want to look at it.

Helen looks at it.

 _Football Star Breaks World Record._ Dated _May 8, 1933_.

Newspaper clippings of the bumbling success of star athlete Robert Parr. She’s seen most of these in Bob’s office at home. Nothing new except for the collection of damage reports. Helen leans back so far she lands on her butt and starts laughing.

“Oh, thank God,” she says.

Winston blinks at her, bemused.

“What?”

“She has boxes on all of us, I’m betting that third one is Lucius. Oh, thank God,” she’s clutching her chest, picture of young Bob still in hand.

“I still don’t understand,” Winston says.

“I was worried it would all be boxes of me. That this was an obsession of hers. It’s her research. How she knew which of us to pick for your project, and probably information she fed you about us to set everyone at ease,” Helen says.

Winston leafs through the box of Bob’s history, brow furrowed.

“I knew she dug deep to get the numbers, I just didn’t think she’d go as far to find a damage report for a seesaw he broke as a tot.”

 

* * *

 

 

**October, 1962. The Mansion currently housing the Parr family.**

Bob Parr lines himself up with the floor length mirror(one of the few left unbroken by Jack-Jack’s power bursts) and tightens his posture. He sucks in his gut, puffs out his chest, and straightens his back. He’s the modern Atlas in boxers and socks.

Then he sighs and deflates.

There are webs of silver scars on his hips and thighs. His chest isn’t as rock hard as it was when he was a young man. He’s got grey hair in his armpits now.

“Why aren’t you dressed? I thought we were going out to dinner?” Helen comes in.

Helen looks great. She hasn’t aged a day since she turned thirty. If anything, the brief stint as Metroville’s solo hero has made her more sprightly. Her eyes are brighter and the swagger of 1947’s Elastigirl is back.

It’s insanely sexy.

“Sorry, got distracted by how old and fat I am,” he says, then wincing at how much of a sad sack he sounds like.

Helen wraps her arms around him from behind, no need to stretch, and pinches at the stretch marks on his stomach.

“Don’t call my husband old and fat,” she says.

He can’t help the shy smile.

“These here are battle scars from years of fighting the good fight at Insuricare,” she adds.

Bob covers her hands, “It’s a reminder of how much I let myself go.”

“It’s a reminder of being alive! Look at all the years you have mapped on your body, Bob. What I wouldn’t give to have stretch marks from Vi, or Dash, or Jack-Jack.”

Because when your whole body stretches, you don’t get those marks from pregnancy. And Bob gets that. The insecurity is ironic. He’s seen the magazine covers giving tips for how a woman can get her body back to looking like a teenager’s after she’s had a baby. That having evidence of being a mother is something shameful. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m nervous about getting out there again. I was so ready when DevTech came knocking, but now that it’s legal, and the people love you. They love you’re soft touch. What if I’m just a--a bull in a china shop to them?” he says.

Helen looks him in the eye, nodding, lips twitching.

“Oh, come on,” he huffs.

She bursts out laughing.

“Bob, if you’re worried about being a human wrecking ball then you’re about forty-six years too late.”

He drops his shoulders and rolls his eyes, “I’m trying to be vulnerable and you’re making fun of me.”

“Because you’re being ridiculous! You’re Mr. Incredible, broody superhero doesn’t suit you! What does suit you is your suit, which you should put on because we are going to be late.”

Helen delivers pat after pat to his butt on his way to the closet.

“Alright, alright! Sheesh! I’m not a piece of meat, woman!”

“Hurry up or I might leave without you. I’m a hot commodity now, I bet there’d be a line to have dinner with Elastigirl.”

Bob adopts a dramatic air, “I knew it! The new job, the motorcycle, next thing is an affair with a coworker.”

Her cheeks go red, properly chastised.

 

* * *

 

 

**September, 1962. Metroville.**

Helen Parr is not having an affair.

She loves her husband and her children. She’d never put that in jeopardy.

But.

But, damn, a woman can be tempted sometimes.

Evelyn Deavor’s breath never smells fresh. It’s always the sour tang of alcohol or the bitter tang of stale coffee. Evelyn also doesn’t seem to do personal space when it comes to Helen—making her an outlier from the rest of the human race. So, Helen’s always feeling the temperature of Evelyn’s mouth. Even quiet nights when it’s just the two of them on the radio, she can feel the ghost of Evelyn’s breath. It’s present and comforting, like the lull between their conversations. Winston’s only around for the excitement. He gets antsy with long silences, but not the two of them.

Helen’s fidgeting with her suit for the nth time when Evelyn makes a clucking noise with her tongue.

“If you move it around anymore you’re gonna jostle the camera,” she says.

“Sorry, it’s quiet tonight and this suit doesn’t really breathe that well,” Helen says.

“Oh? Sorry about that. I do planes, trains, helicopters, but not clothes. I take it Mode’s work is superior?”

“No one beats Edna. She thinks of everything,” Helen says.

“She has my respect, what was it you were saying about being a woman in a male dominated field?” Evelyn says.

“I didn’t say anything, that was all you.”

“Sure it was. Something about having to work three times as hard for one half the recognition? And then some man comes along and sees you a conquest. Someone to be tamed and made to stand in his shadow--”

Helen cuts her off, “Bob has never treated me like something to be tamed.”

“Good. Because we all know that couldn’t be done.”

“It looks like nothing’s happening, I’m gonna come in,” Helen huffs.

Evelyn catches her annoyance through the radio, because she doesn’t push the previous subject.

“You sure? The Screenslaver could still be planning something devious,” she says.

“My ankles are sore and I’m cold. If the Screenslaver wants my attention, he knows how to get it,” Helen says.

Evelyn greets her with sour breath and a fresh mug of cocoa. Instead, Helen finds herself stealing a sip from Evelyn’s Irish coffee. It’s not intentional, but she sees their lipstick prints overlap when she sets the cup down. When she looks up, she’s met with Evelyn’s slow, lazy smile.

If Helen were younger she might feel flustered. Something that would make her heart beat faster. Maybe she’d say something bold to get a react. Now, she knows what the energy of flirtation feels like and how sometimes it’s enough to just enjoy sitting in it.

“So, how would I get your attention?” Evelyn says.

“You already had it the minute you walked into that DevTech meeting,” Helen takes her mask off to rub her temples.

Evelyn’s cheeks stain red, completely caught off guard.

“And here I was making the attempt to blend in with the wallpaper.”

“Try adding some more beige to your wardrobe then.” Helen says.

She sighs as she flops down into the empty chair.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Evelyn swirls her coffee.

The van starts up, driver alerted to return them to DevTech.

“Want to get dinner?” Evelyn says.

Helen wants to take a long shower and eat fancy room service at her fancy hotel. She wants to sink into the king bed that is too luxurious after weeks of Motel living.

“Yeah. Yes, of course,” she says.

“You hesitated,” Evelyn says.

“I was thinking of eating dinner in bed after a hot shower,” Helen sighs.

“Of course, you’ve had a long night and you must want to just rest, not drink and dish with me,” Evelyn says.

The words are out of her mouth really before she can stop herself, “I don’t see why I can’t do both.”

It’s the flirting thing again. It’s reflex.

It’s also the first time Helen’s seen Evelyn’s eyes open the whole way. Her coffee cup hangs just below her chin, eyes darting between Helen and the window. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“That’s very forward,” Evelyn says.

Helen Parr isn’t having an affair.

She curls up in a fluffy bathrobe and turns on the TV while Evelyn showers in the other room.

She does not shed her robe and join the other woman. She doesn’t leave purple bite marks down Evelyn’s spine from her neck to the heart shaped dimples in her hips.

Still, sometimes a woman is tempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The secret to getting more chapters faster is to comment down below and tell me what you thought. I might not always reply, but I reread them all the time.


	3. i am armed with the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen wrestles with the idea of an open marriage and with the investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit of jogging in place unfortunately, but there's groundwork that needs to be laid here in order to move forward. Also, it's been a very taxing week and I still wanted to update with something.
> 
> I started adding exact dates to these because of a few comments mentioning the jumping around was confusing. Hopefully this is easier to follow.
> 
> ALSO, researching military stuff is hard. GDI why couldn't Helen be a commercial chef instead?
> 
> More to come soon!
> 
> Thanks again for all the wonderful comments. You all are stellar.

**October 12, 1962. DevTech.**

“The police took everything in their investigation, but if you think you’ll find something then you’re welcome to look,” Winston says. 

Evelyn’s office has been picked clean, leaving nothing but dents in the carpet where the furniture used to be. There’s still a blank company calendar set to march and a coffee cup on the windowsill.

Helen chews her lower lip, thinking. 

“What about the recording studio?” she says. 

“What about it?” Winston scratches his cheek. 

“She used screens. Maybe she left something down there,” Helen says. 

“I thought you said that the apartment that blew up was full of recording equipment?” he says. 

“Yes, but she could have used any of the computers in this building to transmit signals and using the control room of the recording studio would save time,” Helen’s still speaking when it dawns on her.

Evelyn could have faked the real source of Screenslaver’s broadcast. The apartment was a set up. Or, maybe just a set. Props for the film she was transmitting to the public.

But, why?

It bounces around her head as Winston leads her through halls, down elevators, and behind doors locked via keycard.

When she arrives Helen realizes that she doesn’t know enough about computers to find any clues past the screen.

“Damn,” she mutters and makes a mental note to ask Bob to show her how to use the tower at the library.

Winston’s antsy. It could be the implication that his company is somehow an even bigger crime scene, but there’s something else. Something causing sweat to bead at his hairline.

“Sorry, Helen, I have a meeting with the board I need to get to. Can I see you out? This area is off limits.”

“Even to Elastigirl?” she bats her lashes.

He laughs nervously, “To everyone.”

“I understand,” she lies.

For now, it has to be a dead end.

For the future, Helen needs a way back into that room.

So, she starts looking for Voyd’s contact information.

 

* * *

 

 

**March 30, 1943. Deavor Manor.**

Evelyn Deavor has no time for men.

Evelyn Deavor has a limited existence on this planet and she’s going to use the time she has to make significant technological changes.

Her mostly male engineering cohort give her the nickname, “Smalls” because the only thing she ever asks the professor is: “How do we make it smaller?”

She wants to shrink everything. Cameras. Phones. Televisions. Give her a machine gun and she’ll make it pocket sized. 

Computer processing currently requires an entire room to process simple functions. What if it only took up an office space? What if it only took up a square inside someone’s hand?

Her peers don’t scoff at her ideas, but they do shrug and point to the limited technology available. It’s the middle of a war. Anything and everything goes towards the troops. Unless she’s building a pocket sized bomb, then she’s shit out of luck.

Evelyn could make a pocket sized bomb. That would be too easy.

No. Currently, she’s fixated on automation. What if she could make a car drive itself? What if trains didn’t need operators? What about elevators?

(She would miss the pretty elevator operator at school then, so she shelves that idea for now.)

Her mother doesn’t want her to focus on girls on inventions. She wants Evelyn to pick a husband and settle down with an MRS degree before she turns twenty.

Like she’s some chattel to be sold off.

Evelyn ignores her mother. Evelyn ignores her cohort.

Evelyn wishes she could ignore the philosophy students who invade her favourite Parisian cafe after school. They’re chittering monkies getting red in the face over Marx versus Smith and it is so annoying. She designs a philosopher muzzle during a boring math lecture.

She’s putting the finishing touches on that drawing at the breakfast table when her ears tune back into what Mother is saying.

“You act like I’m doing this to make you unhappy, but a mother worries about her only daughter being left destitute. You need someone to take care of you,” Mother says.

“I can take care of myself,” Evelyn says.

So, instead of spending Sunday entertaining Roy Foley of the Fairsbrook Foleys, she adds her self-driving mechanism to the guts of the old Ford. 

The button for the automatic driver looks rudimentary, nothing as sleek as her designs, but aesthetic appeal is not a requirement for prototypes.

“ED reporting findings. Self-driving vehicle. Prototype number five. March 30, ‘43. Car appears to be accelerating at a steady speed. Still in residential area, will need data for urban streets,” she sets the course for downtown.

It’s working well until it isn’t. She realizes this too late and too quickly when the car pulls into heavy Metroville traffic and doesn’t understand how to shoulder check. It’s the swerving of the other driver that saves her. She takes the wheel and finds it locked in place.

Is this sabotage or her own late night tinkering?

The car careens forward into a busy intersection and Evelyn’s mind is going through every calculation, looking for a flaw. She’s not thinking about death or afterlife, just yelling into her recorder all the data she can. If she is to die, her research can still live on.

But, she doesn’t die. Not today. The car is pulled off course at the last moment, then pulled. Pulled! Into a stop. By arms. Stretching arms.

Evelyn’s in a daze when the door opens and a woman with auburn hair like a paintbrush helps her out.

“Are you okay?” the woman’s face is partly obscured by pilots goggles and she has a charming twang to her voice.

Evelyn is both shocked and starstruck. There have been talks of beings with extraordinary abilities, and yes, she’s read about them, but she’s never seen one up close.

It’s like opening a new door inside her brain and now she’s mentally designing vehicles that would work with stretching abilities. Trains. Planes. Motorbikes.

“Are you okay, Miss?” the woman repeats.

Evelyn nods, then blinks, feeling surprisingly human fingers brushing her hair back.

“Looks like you didn’t even get a bump or a scratch. Take care now,” and in a lopsided smile, Elastigirl is gone.

This is the day Evelyn’s whole life changes.

But, for Helen Truax, it was just another Tuesday.

 

* * *

 

 

**September 1, 1962. DevTech HQ. The Elevator.**

“It sounds amazing,” says Bob. 

“It sounds like they’re selling us something,” says Helen. 

“This is why I always read the fine print,” says Lucius. 

“What? You’re the one who brought us here,” says Bob. 

“I can think something sounds good and still be suspicious,” Lucius fires back. 

Helen worries her lower lip. 

“What do you think, Honey?” Bob says. 

“It’s like Lucius said, I’d need to go over the contract with a fine toothed comb and a lawyer. What do they stand to gain from this? Financially, I mean. No company makes social change on ethics alone,” she says. 

Bob scratches his chin and gives a nod. 

“Can’t we just give someone the benefit of the doubt?” he says. 

“You gave Syndrome the benefit of the doubt,” Lucius says. 

“Come on, Man. Low blow.”

The elevator dings and opens to the basement. 

“I thought we pressed for the lobby,” Helen says. 

“Sorry, paparazzi got sight of you arriving and are currently camped out in front of the building. We have a car waiting down here,” Evelyn Deavor emerges from the dark of the garage to stand in the light of the elevator. 

“Follow me,” then she slouches away. 

Helen exhales sharply. 

Bob’s raised eyebrow can’t be seen through his mask, but Helen still feels it. 

It’s the same slick black limousine as before. Evelyn holds the door open with a, “Ladies first.”

Helen feels the other woman’s eyes drag down her figure like fingertips. Then Lucius is pushing forward, sliding into the seat next to her. The car leans under the weight of Bob getting in, before correcting itself.

“You’re not coming?” he says out the door. 

“Sorry, I’m just an escort. Have a good night, and Elastigirl, please think about the offer,” then Evelyn’s gone in the click of a door. 

They’re all silent until the car pulls out of the garage and into the amber light of Metroville’s streets. Lucius leans forward, taps gently on the glass, then coats it in a sheet of ice. 

“Okay, that woman is shifty,” he says. 

Bob turns to Helen, “What was that?” 

“What was what?” she says. 

Lucius makes a noise and starts digging around for something to drink. 

Bob starts to laugh, “Helen we’ve known each other for twenty years, I have seen you sweet talk women before. Hell, I’m a big fan of when you’re wine drunk and start calling all of the waitresses,” he adopts a drawl and talks out of the corner of his mouth in an impersonation,  _ “sweetheart _ .”

Helen turns a shade of indignant pink. 

“I was not sweet talking! I can be nice to a woman and not be flirting!” she huffs. 

“You were definitely checking each other out,” Lucius chimes in. 

She sputters herself into a sulk. 

“Did anyone else get a total Perry vibe off her?” Bob adds. 

Lucius chokes. 

Helen’s giving her husband murder eyes and he drops the subject. 

The rest of the drive is spent in tense silence. They both say goodbyes to Lucius when the car stops a few blocks from his apartment. Then it’s back to silence.

The car door clicks gently behind Helen and the limousine pulls away.

“Helen, wait,” Bob says.

She does, shedding her mask and looking at him with unguarded eyes.

“I like it… you know. I like seeing you flirt with other women. I married Helen Parr, but I married Helen Truax too. Sometimes I feel like you wanna forget her, and I don’t.”

She hugs her torso and shrugs, conflict radiating off her, “I’m a married woman now, Bob. I have kids. I can’t be acting the same way I did when I was in my twenties. Especially because anything I do could be used to hurt Vi, or Dash, or you, or the baby.”

Bob sighs and pulls her into a hug, “I wish we didn’t live in a world where being ourselves put the kids in danger.”

 

* * *

 

 

**September 1, 1945. Metroville City University Campus at Downtown.**

“Why are we here again?” Bob says, tugging at his collar.

“Free food and college girls,” Lucius replies, checking his teeth in the mirror. 

Art shows in repurposed apartment complexes are becoming a thing. Not that Bob really gets what is and isn’t a thing these days. With the war everything is in this constant state of flux. Culture. Priorities. He’s just a guy who helps lift and hit things. 

Yeah, he’s nervous in the presence of academics and artists. What is he supposed to know about art. 

“I thought you were still seeing Blazestorm,” Bob says. 

“We’re not exclusive. And, this is for you. You haven’t so much as looked at another girl since Sarah,” Lucius leads them up an unsteady staircase. 

They follow the sound of music and chatter to an unlocked door and swing it open. 

Just one look at the crowd and Bob can tell this is going to be a ‘standing in a corner with punch’ kind of affair. He’s resigned to this and hopes Lucius will want to leave with plenty of time to hit the rooftops. 

He’s getting a glass of wine that looks comically tiny in his hand when he hears a familiar voice. Bob turns, eyes scanning the crowd. 

Lucius is wrong because Bob has looked at other women since Sarah. It’s pretty hard not to notice that Elastigirl has the most glorious ass gifted to human kind. Or, super kind, if hairs are going to be split.

He’s betting dollars to donuts that there can’t be two women in this city with the same butt and the same cute lisp. He sees her from behind. Same short auburn hair too.

Bob approaches. It’s weird. He’s talked to a few of the others outside of work, but seeing someone else in a civilian setting feels private. Like he’s an invader.

He doesn’t even know her name.

Bob’s thinking of making a break for the stairs when a woman with a tweed coat and an aura of smug superiority approaches him. He feels just the slightest twinge of his danger sense going off and tries to find Lucius with his eyes.

She offers a hand. Bob sweats under a grey gaze through horn rimmed glasses.

“Doctor Ellis, I’ve been putting these shows together for awhile now and I haven’t see you around. You are?” she says.

“Uhhh Bob,” he says, still scanning for an escape.

“What kind of artistic movements do you follow,  _ Bob _ ?”

“The uh… one with all the weird eyes and squiggly lines,” he says.

“Do you follow other members of the surrealist movement or are you partial to cubism?” she says.

He has this ‘help’ signal on the dashboard of the Incredibile that would really come in handy right about now.

“Perry! There you are,” shit. There’s Elastigirl.

It’s weird seeing the final two inches of a person’s face when you’re used to looking at them in a mask. Elastigirl has natural tired lines under her eyes and a splash of freckles. She looks at him with immediate recognition. He winces.

“You’ve met one of my friends from work,” she says.

The sharp woman sniffs, “I should have guessed. I’m sorry for interrogating you, Bob.”

_ “Bob?”  _ Elastigirl mouths at him.

He shrugs. What’s wrong with being named Bob?

Lucius appears, finally picking up on that psychic wave.

“Hey Man, that’s where you disappeared to,” then he makes eye contact with Elastigirl too.

It’s awkward.

“Oh hey,” he begins.

How do you greet someone whose name you don’t know?

“Helen, will any more of your ‘work friends’ be showing up?” Doctor Ellis says testily.

“Not that I know of,” she says, looking to the two of them for confirmation.

Bob and Lucius nod emphatically.

“We were just leaving,” Bob says loudly.

“Yes,” Lucius agrees.

“Great, I’ll see you out,” Helen is not physically stronger than either of them, but she does a good job of shoving them through the crowd and back outside.

That’s where she lights a cigarette and fires a smirk at a girl walking past.

“Who’s the square with the attitude?” Lucius pipes up with.

“An ex, still territorial,” Helen replies.

“We won’t talk about what happened tonight,” Bob says.

Lucius shoots him a confused look.

Helen sighs and puts her cigarette out. She holds up a hand, staring at them hard.

“I’m Helen, nice to meet you in person.”

Bob takes the hand and shakes it firmly, “Robert Parr, but you can call me Bob.”

Lucius follows suit, “Lucius. Good to meet you.”

 

* * *

 

 

**September 27, 1962. Metroville. Helen’s hotel room.**

“So, Perry’s the ex?” Evelyn says.

They’re in Helen’s bed with not much between them except a shared chocolate mousse, and the Sunday paper. The crossword’s been filled in and there’s one word left in the word search. They’ve divided the actual news stories between them, leaving all sports except baseball (Helen), and the classifieds (Evelyn) dropped to the floor. Sunday funnies and all.

“Her and half the population of Metroville City University, classes of 43, 44, 45, 46, 47….” Helen trails off.

“Not all of ‘43. Then I’d be on the list,” Evelyn corrects.

“You would’ve been, what, fifteen in ‘43?” Helen says.

“Seventeen, thanks,” Evelyn rolls her eyes.

“I’m having a hard time picturing you at seventeen. I’m just seeing the same woman before me, but maybe with a hat.”

Evelyn laughs and rolls onto her back, stretching languidly to let her robe gape open and expose creamy flesh. Helen averts her eyes and licks mousse off her spoon. She gets caught in the old habit of running her tongue along the edge of the spoon, then using the flat of her tongue on the back.

Evelyn is definitely staring, eyes hungry and dark.

They haven’t had sex.

This is toeing the line of appropriate. What’s wrong with two adult women sharing a bed after bathing? Perfectly innocent.

Or, it would be if Helen weren’t fighting the temptation to shove bowl, paper, and all else to the floor and drag Evelyn by the hips down to her own hungry mouth.

Not only is it personally inappropriate for a married woman to do such things, it’s also professionally inappropriate to taste her employer’s peach.

“She broke your heart, didn’t she?” Evelyn once again reminds Helen more of Bob than anyone else, doggedly prodding whatever sore spot Helen wants left alone.

“I was young and she was… God, she knew everything. History, philosophy, art. Everything I lacked. And for awhile, I thought she was there to teach me. Turns out she just wanted to make me feel small,” Helen says.

“So, it wasn’t Bob,” Evelyn says more to herself than to Helen.

“Excuse me?” Helen can feel her hackles raising.

“You’re this powerhouse, Hel, but you always pull back. Like you’re afraid of how people might react to who you really are.”

“Who says you know who I really am?” Helen fires back.

“I don’t need to have known you for twenty years to know that you’re self-sacrificing and just a little bit repressed,” Evelyn says.

“Repressed?” Helen scoffs, “What am I repressing right now?”

Evelyn snorts and makes a pointed line between their bodies with her eyes.

Helen laughs and pulls back the covers to get up, "There's a difference between repression and knowing what a bad idea looks like."

"I look like a bad idea?" Evelyn teases.

"You look like my boss."

 

* * *

 

 

**October 11, 1962. The Mansion currently housing the Parr family.**

 

"And you didn't sleep with her after that?" Bob looks up from the math textbook he's taken to bed.

"Yes, Bob. I didn't fuck my boss." Helen hisses.

He squints at her behind his glasses, "Of course, you'd never sleep with Winston."

Helen ignores that and gropes around for the lamp string to turn on the light.

"And no open clause in our marriage is going to make me feel less guilty when I'm considering sleeping with someone else," she slaps the covers.

"Why?"

"Because I married you!"

Helen has to keep her voice down because Violet probably has super hearing as a power and gets easily disturbed when it comes to their squabbles.

"Yes! But you can still be married to me and be seeing someone else," Bob says.

"Why aren't you scared of that?" she whispers.

Bob takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes in the same motion.

"Helen, being attracted to other people is always going to happen. By having this clause in our marriage, it makes me less afraid of losing you. You don't have to choose between having your cake and eating it," he sounds very tired.

"But it's greedy."

"It's human. And, it doesn't feel great to know that you're developing feelings for someone else. But, the fact that it's a woman does make it a bit easier."

"How so?" Helen props her head up on her palm.

"It means I'm still the only man who can handle you," he share a shy smile.

Helen laughs and prods his jaw, "The only man I could stand to be married to, you mean?"

"Eh, potato-potato."

 


	4. look how far they go around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen's investigation comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh I had to read up on military operations, planes, and allied bases in WW2, AND I PROBABLY STILL GOT IT WRONG. FOR LIKE THREE SENTENCES. AAAAAAA.
> 
> I could've sworn that Bob uses the word "schmutz" in one of the Incredibles movies and that just stuck out to me, because Yiddish was not commonplace in the 20 year time frame the films take place in. So, Jewish Bob. 
> 
> Y'all: oh boy I sure can't wait for the femslash smut  
> Me: we'll get to that, but first we're gonna talk about the impact of WW2 on American society and the military industrial complex  
> Y'all: please give us tiddies  
> Me: NEXT CHAPTER I S WEAR
> 
> Thank you all for the support and great comments. I've been rereading them all week. youre all da best. kisses.
> 
> oh btw, you can follow me at holyfuckabear.tumblr.com if you like shitposting. I do answer questions there if you want, like, author back and forth.

**October 13, 1962. Metroville Municipal Public Library.**

“Dash, stop running in the aisles,” Helen sighs without looking up. 

Bob has a meeting with Winston at City Hall today, so her investigation should be on hold. Which is why she’s got the blueprints for a train stretched out in front of her and Jack-Jack snoring in his snuggle against her chest. 

“I’m not!” Dash zips back. 

“Is that the train you stopped?” he points a finger at it. 

“It’s a photocopy, so you can touch it if you want,” she says

Dash takes the opportunity to poke at the paper a few times before losing interest. Helen follows the path of his finger and frowns at a smudge he touches. She lifts the paper closer to her eyes. 

“Dash, what does this look like to you?”

He sticks his tongue out as he reads it, “It looks like someone signed their name, Ed something.”

“That’s what I was thinking of.”

“Cool! Are we gonna hunt down a bad guy?” he stage whispers. 

“No,  _ we  _ aren’t doing any hero work, Dash. This is just some follow up I need to do on Screenslaver,” Helen says. 

“Ooo do you think she’s gonna break out of prison and blow up the house?” 

Helen frowns at him. She really needs to get them all in to see a child psychologist. 

“Why don’t you go find your sister?” Helen changes the subject. 

Dash huffs and takes off at a regular pace. 

“Hey Violet!” he yells, only to be silenced by a dozen shushes. Helen smacks her own forehead. 

The signature could be nothing. 

Helen still grabs a pen and circles it, then reaches for the list of contributing engineers. 

Edward Geiss. No. 

Ernie Wong. No. 

Nothing that could match the signature. 

She flips it over and there it is. 

Additional consulting: Edwin Smalls. 

There’s a crash from upstairs and Jack-Jack starts fussing. 

She starts stuffing papers back into the folder she brought. 

Time to go.

 

* * *

 

 

**October 15, 1962. The Mansion currently housing the Parr family.**

Physically, Edwin Smalls is a ghost. 

Not a literal ghost.

There’s no phone number and the address she finds leads to a paper town in upstate New York. 

Edwin Smalls does not exist. 

There’s little more she can focus on right now because Bob is in London and Jack-Jack is having an active day. 

“Thanks for all your help, Karen,” she says, blowing a hair out of her face. 

Karen pops out of the wall holding Jack-Jack. 

“It’s helping me practice too,” she says. 

Helen pulls out a chair and sets down the plate of sandwiches she’s been working on. 

“I didn’t really have anyone to practice with growing up,” Karen says, brushing some hair behind her ear.

She waits for Helen before taking a sandwich, then peels the crusts off, eating them first, then takes a bite.

“Are you first or second generation super?” Helen asks. 

Karen swallows a mouthful of sandwich before talking. 

“I think I’m second? My mom’s human, but she says my dad was like me.”

“You never met your father?” Helen asks, doing mental math. 

“No, he and Mom weren’t a thing. She tried tracking him down after she found out she was having me, but never reached him,” Karen shrugs. 

Helen frowns, hoping to have a better poker face than she suspects she does. Doing some mental math, Karen would’ve been born in probably 43 or 44. 

She really hopes that Karen’s father isn’t who immediately came to mind.

But, the chin is pretty damning.

Karen seems to read her mind, “Do you know who my dad was?”

Helen sighs, “We were all given strong suggestions from the NSA not to reproduce. After the ban, I know a lot of people went underground or wouldn’t want anything related to their powers coming out. You do have exceptionally strong powers. But, parents powers don’t really account for what the child gets. There hasn’t been enough research into it, but you wouldn’t put stretching and invulnerability together and guess we’d have a speedster for a kid. Then there’s Jack-Jack.”

“He’s a pretty special guy,” Karen agrees, bouncing the baby.

“At the end of the day,” Helen takes another sigh, “Whoever it was, or could have been, chances are he’s dead. Bob, Lucius, and I… we’re the last of that generation.”

The silence permeates the walls as that sinks in. Karen takes a shuddery deep breath and laughs. 

“You know, I thought that I wouldn’t ever meet him, but part of me’s always hoped. You know? Always thought I might get the chance to tell him off?”

Helen extends a comforting hand to Karen’s shoulder. 

Jack-Jack babbles and then disappears. 

“Again?” Helen balks. 

“I think he’s playing hide and seek with me,” Karen says. 

The plate of sandwiches go forgotten as Karen portals through several rooms, following Jack-Jack on instinct. 

“Careful!” Helen calls, feeling helplessly foolish in this situation. 

“Hey! There’s a secret room down here!” comes Karen’s voice. 

Helen jogs to follow. 

“I’m surprised Dash hasn’t found this,” she whispers. 

The room is something between a bar and a bunker. The walls are lined with expensive alcohol, but the room itself is sealed with a safe door. 

“Whose house is this?” Karen whispers. 

“Winston says he bought it off some reclusive millionaire… oh God damn it,” Helen smacks her forehead. 

“You think this was a supervillains house?” Karen says. 

“It could be one of the richer supers, I remember that members of the Phantasmics were pretty wealthy.”

Karen holds up something that looks more like a death ray than not. Jack-Jack grabs the air for it. 

 

* * *

 

 

**October 16, 1962. The LAIR currently housing the Parr family.**

“-where my children have been living, Winston!”

“I didn’t know it had anything active!” he chirps. 

“Whose house have we been living in?” Helen uses the Scary Mom Voice. 

“...he called himself Number Cruncher and he was supposed to just be the accountant for other supervillains.”

“Win…”

“I didn’t think there’d be anything dangerous, Helen. You have my word. I can get your family moved to a new location,” his voice is laced with sincere concern. 

Helen folds with a sigh, “Is there anything else I need to know about the house?”

Winston lowers his voice, “Well, between you and me, I’ve heard rumours that it’s full of… dangerous supers.”

She laughs, surprised by the answer.

There are times when Winston opens his mouth and Helen remembers that he and Evelyn are brother and sister. He may be the optimist to her cynic, but those lines cross sometimes and the contrast becomes stark. 

It’s a shame, because she really likes Winston, that Helen is past the point of suspecting that he’s not as innocent as his sister had them believe. Winston knows something, and Helen plans to get enough evidence to make him talk.

 

* * *

 

 

**October 21, 1962. Number Cruncher’s Lair.**

Bob comes in with the rain. There’s a weariness to him that starts in his neck and creeps all the way down to his ankles. 

Helen sees him looking like a droopy dog and knows. 

“You went to Krakow.”

“Yeah. I had to see it for myself,” he rolls his shoulders in a sigh.

Helen wraps herself around him a few times.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” she rasps.

“They found her name in, uh, one of the books.”

Bob’s rubbing the space between his glass eyes with thumb and forefinger.

Helen fingers the silver chain around his neck until she finds the pendant. A hamsa. Silver also.

“Where did you get this?” Helen says.

“I wish I could say it was part of her personal effects, but no, I bought it at the airport on my way back,” his shoulders are shuddering, but he doesn’t cry.

“Well, now my news sounds silly,” she says.

“Please, anything to take my mind off it.”

Bob sets down his suitcase and flops backwards on the bed.

“We’re living in a super villain’s old house. Winston, being a collector of memorabilia, snatched it up as soon as it went on the market,” Helen exaggerates her smile.

“How evil are we talking here? Like, finding the lost remains of Macroburst under the floorboards?” he sighs.

Helen clutches her chest, “Bob!”

“Sorry, Hon, visiting the camps put me a bit on edge. Go on.”

Helen gingerly sits at the edge of the bed next to his sprawled form. They stare upwards at the arcs made by the blades of the ceiling fan.

“The kid’s’ll be home soon,” she rubs her eye.

“Good. I think I need to hug them for an hour, Jack-Jack sleeping?” Bob sighs.

“Just put him down,” Helen runs her fingers through Bob’s hair.

“Why does he stay down when you do it?” Bob whines.

“I put cognac in his bottle.”

He blinks for a second.

“I’m kidding.”

“You are for now, but he hasn’t stopped teething yet.”

Helen huffs a laugh through her nose. She hauls him onto her lap.

“Anything else happen while I was gone?” he mumbles, forehead flush with the outside of her womb.

“Actually, did you find the remains of Gamma Jack while you were on the island?” she says.

“No, why?” he yawns.

“DNA test, also, a chance to kick him between the legs one last time.”

Bob mulls over that in confusion.

“Is there something I need to know?” he says slowly.

Helen barks out a laugh, “Oh, no. Not me. Obviously. Voyd mentioned never knowing a father, and I’m making an educated guess.”

Bob slaps his forehead, “Of course. She’s the one with the,” he makes finger guns and  _ ‘pshew pshew’ _ noises, “Portals right?”

“That’s the one,” Helen sighs.

“Checks out. You keeping an eye on her?” he says.

“No need, she’s not exactly a chip off the old block.”

 

* * *

 

 

**April 2, 1943. The Tin Sailor Pub, Metroville.**

“If you lift the cue too high then you’ll scratch, like that, you’ve gotta make the movement smooth.”

The bar is loud, but the girl, Rosa? She can feel the words spoken against her ear. Helen’s got one hand on her elbow, the other on her hip. 

Truthfully, Rosa doesn’t care much about billiards. She does care for being pinned to the table by the cute stranger in the bomber jacket she met tonight. 

Over Helen’s shoulder, Rosa sees the approach of a handsome blonde man. There’s something off about him that she can’t quite place. 

“Hey Stretch, heard I’d find you here,” he says. 

Helen’s whole posture goes tense. She moves away from Rosa, shooting the woman an apologetic smile as she drags the intruder outside by the sleeve. 

“Milton.”

“Handsome Jack, please.”

“What do you want?” she sighs.

“Nothing in particular. You chase as much tail as I do, and the other members of the NSA are such stiffs,” he says. 

Helen lights a cigarette, guessing that this will take long enough to need one. 

He pauses, looking unsure for a moment, “When did you start showing you had powers?”

That’s surprising. Her eyebrows raise as she thinks about it. 

“Don’t know exactly when, but Ma always said I started teething, then I started stretching.”

Handsome Jack sucks his teeth and nods. 

“Why?” Helen asks. 

“Kid must not be mine because he’s two and hasn’t shown nothin’.”

“We don’t exactly know how it works generationally, Milton,” Helen says. 

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to ask you. You’re the only egghead in the NSA who doesn’t talk like a poindexter.” 

“I’m not taking that as a compliment,” Helen huffs. 

“You don’t have to. Get back to the pair of legs back there before I give her a chase,” Milton says. 

Helen pauses, conflicted, and shifts her weight. 

“Is this really the only reason you came here?” she asks. 

“There aren’t a lot of us, Stretch. Who else am I gonna rely on?” he says. 

“A doctor?” she offers.

“They aren’t on our side.”

Helen turns to head back into the bar when he calls after her.

“Is it true they kicked you out of the military for being a gay?”

She stiffens, feels her mouth get tight and her hands pull into fists. Then, she takes a deep breath and smiles, “Are you kidding? There’s a war going on. They need soldiers to throw at a problem. They don’t care that I like women, they care that the Germans or the Russians could capture me and use me as a weapon. It’s the same reason they wouldn’t want you enlisting.”

 

* * *

 

**June 25, 1942. Somewhere over the Himalayas.**

They’re half way over the Hump when something blows a hole right into the side of the plane.

That something could be a shell, or, it could just be that the Consolidated C-87 Liberator is a POS with wings. The cockpit doesn’t even light up at takeoff anymore.

When she took this job, she thought she’d be flying something beautiful and fast. A P-40 or a P-51, but no, she’s carrying crew and cargo in a flying tugboat.

Falling tugboat.

The wind screams through the cabin, letting in that freezing Himalayan air and knocking the breath out of those who haven’t been sucked out of the hole.

They could die. She could die. It wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not like she and Bonnie are going to get their happy ending. She’d get to see Jackson and Ma again.

While First Lieutenant Truax’s brain contemplates mortality, her arms and legs take control. There’s a reason it’s called instinct. The plane is losing altitude and there’s no stopping that. She can’t patch the whole and steer, so she needs to evacuate.

“Anyone with parachutes, jump! If you don’t have a parachute, then wait for me!”

Twelve of the remaining eighteen servicemen snap into action and launch themselves through cracked steel and into the cold mountain air.

“LT, what’re we gonna do?” shouts Mathers.

Lieutenant Truax looks around. There’s boxes of ammunition, of rations, of supplies, all held in place by netting.

“Help me cut some of this off!” she says.

Five men with pocket knives help her cut the netting loose. The crates shift and slide. The planes in a controlled dive now and walking is difficult.

“Everyone grab a corner, hurry!” she looks through the window and sees the mountain coming to meet them fast.

They don’t need to be told twice.

“Now jump!”

And it speaks to how much these men trust and respect Truax, because they do. She grabs the centre of the net and takes a deep breath before jumping. Before falling. They’re in the air ten seconds before she expands and stretches herself into a parachute.

They might be screaming in fear of her, or it could be the altitude, the crashing plane. Lieutenant Truax just focuses on getting their speed down enough that they can land without shattering legs.

The snow meets them in a roll. Six men land unharmed as the plane slides down the face of a mountain.

“Everyone still alive, sound off,” Lieutenant Truax says when she gets her breath back.

Someone whoops. Another laughs.

“We’ve got fuckin’ Elastigirl as our LT!”

 

* * *

 

 

**August 8, 1942. Loping Airfield, China.**

“In your words, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Truax takes a deep breath before speaking. 

“We gotta get better transport planes.”

She sees the chin wobble of her CO trying not to laugh. He clears his throat instead. Her gaze shifts to the man sitting at the back of the room. Government Agent type. Stiff lip, stiff jaw, stiff hair. He’s got a lit cigarette he hasn’t taken a drag of, droopy eyes fixed on her instead.

There’s a sigh from the investigations officer, “Lieutenant, the official report of the crash states that you saved the remaining six men who had no parachutes, care to explain how that happened?”

Lieutenant Truax leans back in her chair, feeling very much like a butterfly pinned to a board.

“I can stretch my body into different shapes, I turned into a parachute and lowered everyone to safety,” she admits.

“Can you demonstrate these abilities?” the investigator says.

Helen sighs and reaches past him. She snatches the cigarette out of the smoking man’s hand. He startles. She takes a drag and hands it back to him.

Her CO’s jaw is dropped and he knocks his chair over with the speed that he gets out of it.

There’s a tense silence in the moments that follow.

The writing’s on the wall. Yes, she’s a secret weapon for the United States, but what would happen if that weapon fell into the hands of the Germans or the Japs? Burma is falling. China might be next.

The smoking man waits for the end of the meeting to introduce himself.

“Rick Dicker, NSA, we’ve been waiting to bring you in,” he holds out a hand.

“Do I have a choice to come in, or is this me being told, Agent Dicker?” she eyes the hand.

“Entirely up to you, but you look like the type who thrives when she’s a part of something.”

Helen takes Dicker’s hand, she takes her honourable discharge, her Distinguished Flying Cross, and gets on the next flight back stateside.

 

* * *

 

 

**October 23, 1962. Number Cruncher’s Lair. The Parr residence.**

Helen’s defended herself in investigations before, but this is the most nervous she’s felt. This is all a hunch. It could be nothing. It could be misplaced obsession. Rage, betrayal, and affection all blended with the word ‘why?’

Bob and Lucius are silent as they go through the evidence. 

Lucius frowns, “So both the train and the helicopters were tampered with by Deavor?”

“Yeah, turns out she went to school with the guy who made the designs. He’s the one who confirmed she uses the pseudonym, Edwin Smalls when consulting on non-DevTech projects.”

Bob squints at the plans and makes an ‘ah’ with his mouth as he finds the signature.

“And she added screens?” Lucius says.

“The screens, some additional safety mechanisms--like the train actually had an emergency break that was triggered during that first rescue. She suggested the helicopter controls be changed from the experimental design they were going to use to military standard,” Helen lists off.

“So, she baby proofed your missions?” Bob asks.

Lucius exhales slowly, “This reeks of a set up.”

“Really?” Helen says. 

“It’s solid evidence. I would’ve hopped on it sooner,” Bob says. 

Helen lets out the breath she was holding. 

“It does beg the question. What is the Deavor’s real plan if all of the Screen Slaver attacks were sabotaged internally?” Lucius says. 

“That’s what I’ve gotta find out,” Helen says. 

“You need to talk to Evelyn,” Bob says. 

“I need to talk to Evelyn.”

 

* * *

 

 

**April 15, 1943. Metroville.**

Evelyn Deavor needs to talk to Elastigirl. She has a list of questions.

_ Does it hurt? _

_ Have you ever stretched too far and been unable to reshape yourself? _

_ Would you like to get a coffee? _

But, it’s not like she can look the woman up in the phone book. There’s no address. No calling card.

Well, there is one calling card. This is try number two. Scientific inquiry requires trial and error. So far the reproduction results of summoning Elastigirl are one-out-of-two. Not bad odds.

She’s justifying it as a calculated risk, but she knows it’s just a risk.

Same neighbourhood, different invention. The grappling hook has long existed in fiction, but real models don’t live up to the potential.

Evelyn’s not very high up when she finds a flaw in her plan.

She’s a scientist with weak, scrawny arms, and gripping the trigger is starting to hurt.

This was a stupid idea.

She does manage to haul herself up onto a ledge. Evelyn suddenly feels empathy for kittens stuck in trees. Yes, getting up is a lot easier than down.

This is embarrassing. Her legs shake with the wind. Mentally, she makes a note to dedicate her life to instant communication so that she doesn’t have to stand and wait around for help. It doesn’t have to be Elastigirl! It could be Blazestone! Or Psycwave! Hell, she’d settle for the fire department.

“Hey Doll, looks like you’re in something of a pickle,” comes a voice from the ground.

Evelyn takes it back. She can just die.

It is a superhero at least. Regretfully, male.

“Who are you supposed to be?” her voice gets thin when she yells.

“Gamma Jack, you’ve probably heard of me,” he replies.

“Can’t say I have. What do you do exactly?” Evelyn closes her eyes and tries not to look down.

“Release controlled bursts of radiation!”

“How is that supposed to help me get down?” she yells.

It genuinely stumps him. Great. 

“Don’t worry, Doll, I’ll work the problem. How about you tell me your name?”

“Please leave! I’ll get down on my own.”

“Nonsense, I’m already here!”

She rubs her temples. Right, she needs to find another target to grapple onto that can get her close enough to the ground, and also won’t have the inertia to shatter her knees.

Albeit, shattered knees are looking more appealing than talking to the walking bomb currently at the base of the building.

But, then she won’t be able to run away from his advances.

Note to self, never be caught unprepared again.

A car screeches up to the sidewalk below. Evelyn sighs, seeing the insignia. Did all the female supers take the night off?

“Jack. What’s going on here?” Mr. Incredible is such a joke.

“Kitten stuck up a tree.”

“Don’t worry ma’am. I can get you down!” Mr. Incredible’s voice booms from below.

If a choice between him and the slime down there, she’ll pick the lesser evil.

Oh god, there’s a crowd now. This is so embarrassing.

Blood rushes to her ears, and then there’s a blue and black hand being held out to her.

“Easy, I got you.”

It’s mortifying that she has her face pressed against his shoulder.

“Are you okay? Do you need a ride home?” his eyes are blue under his mask.

“I’m fine,” she shrugs his hand off.

“If you’re fine would you like to get a drink?” Jack chimes in.

Mr. Incredible shares her eye roll and it endears her to him.

“No, thank you. Actually. If you could walk me to my car,” she pleads for help with her eyes.

“Of course,” Mr. Incredible says.

“I’ll come too.”

“Take the hint, Man,” Mr. Incredible puffs out his chest.

It’s like walking next to a silverback gorilla. She can’t stop staring at how massive he is. Easily over 6’5. She can see why they call him a god.

“Sorry about Jack, he’s young and, uh--”

“A lizard?” she supplies.

He laughs at that.

“This is my car,” she points out.

“Okay, well, get home safe,” Mr. Incredible says.

She gives an awkward wave. He opens the door for her.

Evelyn really wants to be as exasperated by him as she is by other men, how dare he be so endearing?

She watches him disappear in her rearview mirror and drives to the beach instead of home. It’s here that she bursts into tears, then into laughter, then the combination of the two.

She could’ve died, all because she’s too awkward to talk to the pretty girl at the coffee shop. She avoided proper safety precautions because she wanted to be saved. And she could have paid for it worse.

Next time, she needs to be ready.

Next time, she’ll save herself.

“Alright, no more superheroes,” she vows, wiping away tears.


	5. my enemy please stay close to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawful Good vs. Neutral Good, Chaotic Good, and Chaotic Neutral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all: aww! so evelyn was good all along!  
> me: eeeeehhh *neutral hand gesture*
> 
> i'm very tired.
> 
> have tiddie. more tiddie next chapter.
> 
> thanks for all the continued support and great comments. kiss your faces mwah.
> 
> you remember how your backyard barbecue go, The Smiths? Pretty good it doesn't seem.

**November 20, 1962. DevTech. Metroville.**

“Why did the superhero go away?” Winston poses the rhetorical question.

Helen’s still scowling, arms folded. Bob’s on the edge of his seat, boyish eagerness crushed by the question. Lucius reclines, one eye on Evelyn by the exit.

“I messed up. I took on too many things and got a lot of people hurt,” Bob says.

“Money,” Lucius says.

“Perception?” Helen rolls her eyes.

“Bingo!” Winston points to her.

“The problem was that people saw superheroes as more of a nuisance than a service. They took you for granted. And why’s that?”

“Because the city was crawling with supers fighting over high profile crimes like vultures?” Evelyn supplies over the rim of her coffee cup.

Winston holds up a finger.

“Okay, why is she here?” Frozone asks.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m reformed. They zapped my brain and now I’m a good samaritan!” Evelyn says.

“Don’t even joke,” Helen sighs, “Evelyn only  _ posed  _ as a supervillain.”

“I know about that part, what I don’t know is how a crazed sociopath is still allowed to be in business,” he trails off.

“You answered your own question, didn’t you?” Evelyn laughs.

“Still more ethical than Insuricorp,” Bob adds in, stirring sugar into his coffee.

Evelyn snorts, “It wasn’t the company that bailed me out. It was the DoD. They were very interested in the progress I’ve made in mind control technology and offered me diplomatic immunity in exchange for the patent.”

Helen gets up and walks out.

Winston sweats, his presentation ruined.

“Uh, could someone please fetch Elastigirl? We need her for this briefing.”

“I’ll do it,” Evelyn and Bob say.

They turn to look at each other. Lucius gets up to follow Helen.

He finds her in the hallway, watching jet streams.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’ll come back in. I just needed a minute,” she says.

“You can need more than a minute,” he touches her elbow.

“Have you ever heard of Operation Paperclip?” she asks, wishing for a cigarette for the first time in years.

“No,” Lucius says.

“Well, officially you still don’t know about it. I shouldn’t know, but a few of the guys from my old squadron get loose lips during card games. See, when I enlisted I told I’d be wiping that evil off the face of the Earth. Men who tortured and murdered in the name of progress. That was a lie. If you’re good enough at building machines of mass destruction, then all of your sins will be forgiven. You just have to sign on the dotted line and become an American citizen.”

“Shit,” Lucius leans against the wall, “So, you’re not surprised that the DoD let Evelyn go free.”

“She’s smart and she’s good at war,” Helen pushes off from the window.

They re-enter to a weird energy between Bob and the Deavors.

“They took us for granted?” Helen prompts, weary.

Winston rubbernecks and adjusts his tie, he clears his throat, “Yes! You were being taken for granted, and why’s that? Evelyn, please don’t answer.”

She mimes zipping her lips.

“Lack of threat! No one wants to go to the doctor if they’re not sick. It’s the same with superheroes. Supers, cops, firefighters, all stepping on each other’s toes for mundane problems. Supers need super problems. You were too good at your jobs! How many supervillains have you seen in the past fifteen years?” Winston is back on track.

“Present company included? Three in the past year,” Helen says, snidely.

Evelyn raises her cup.

“Yes! And those three have led to the resurgence of support for superheroes. You can’t have a superhero without a super threat!” Winston is on his toes, delighted.

Bob tents his fingers, “You’re making it sound like we need supervillains to survive.”

“Bingo!” Winston points to him.

Helen chokes on her coffee, “Excuse me?”

“Winston, if I may?” Evelyn gets up and straightens her clothes.

Helen’s eyes get drawn to an exposed patch of skin between Evelyn’s buttons. She bites her lip and averts her gaze.

“It’s only a matter of time before there’s an escalation of power. We almost saw it in the 50’s with Gamma Jack before he was neutralized. The worst case scenario we could face is someone as powerful as him, or even your youngest, turning evil. The three of you could easily level an entire district in a few hours. Just think about a super with powers over lava, or radiation, just having a bad day. We need to prevent that from happening,” she pauses to take a drink.

Helen, Lucius, and Bob are trading nervous looks.

“If we could manufacture threats for you to deal with in the most clean, safe way possible, we’d have a two birds, one stone situation. You get to prove your necessity, society gets to rely on you, and the influx of mid-grade supervillains fills that niche. High powered supers are monitored and prevented from turning,” Evelyn makes a vague hand gesture.

“How would we do all of this? There aren’t exactly people volunteering to get put through a wall by Bob,” Lucius says.

“You’d be surprised,” Winston mutters airily.

Evelyn makes a face.

“Mind control,” Helen answers, realization dawning.

“The goggles can be adapted. We find candidates of a certain type, give them a gimmick, then set them loose in an area. One of you answers a call, gets your work out. Then everyone goes home fine. Zero casualties, minimal damage,” Evelyn says.

“There’s no way you can promise that. Everything is so chaotic in the middle that someone could get caught in the crossfire,” Bob says.

“Maybe not, but it will make for great TV,” Winston says.

“This is sick,” Helen says.

“This is genius,” Lucius sounds nauseated. 

Bob buries his face in his hands.

“Who would you even use? Who are these candidates?” Helen says.

Winston looks less sure, squeezing his hands nervously.

Evelyn has that rough passion in her voice that comes out with villainous plans and too much drink.

“Those who’ve evaded justice. Mob bosses, war criminals, abusers. Their crimes can’t be ignored when they drive a giant robot through downtown,” she says.

“And what if you pick someone who was falsely accused?” Helen says.

Evelyn looks at her hands.

“I’m in,” Bob says.

Helen balks, “Bob!”

“It’s not perfect, and I think it needs a controlled start, but it does make sense.”

Helen looks to Lucius.

“I need to think about it,” he says.

Every eye in the room is on Helen.

“Absolutely not! This is why we have laws! Superheroes are legal! We don’t need to prove our worth by playing judge, jury, and executioner on private citizens. You know who does that?”

“The government?” Evelyn says.

“The private sector?” Bob hurls back.

“Supervillains,” Lucius and Winston say.

 

* * *

 

 

**March 23, 1948. Parr Household. Barriovale.**

Bob Parr loves his wife.

He loves Helen, he does.

He’s just very suspicious of the suburban pod person who replaced her.

Somewhere around the engagement, Helen started getting… weird. Growing her hair out? Totally fine. She’s got beautiful hair. Dressing more feminine? Who is he to police how she dresses? Does he miss the grease stained overalls and heavy mens shirts? A little.

“Bob, what do you think of these curtains? They’re taupe. I think they’d accent the living room well,” Pod Helen says, showing him a flyer. 

He grunts in response. God, he feels like a rat in a cage. He can feel his muscles atrophying. He’s stuck in here with the imposter who replaced his wife and he can’t even work it off by helping with a hostage situation or something. 

Curtains. Since when does Elastigirl care about curtains?

There’s gridlock going out of the city at 5 PM. Bob likes to wave on his way in. The road is blissfully free as he drives to work. He’s a bouncer at a biker bar. They took one look at al six feet seven inches of him and hired him on the spot. It’s not the best money, but at least it’s not a desk job.

The Incredibile starts making a weird chugging noise as he pulls off the highway, and he’s not worried about it. His wife’s a mechanic. And if Helen can’t fix it then he can look up Smalls from the NSA. He only single handedly ruined the lives of all supers. People should be happy to see him. 

It’s midnight and he’s picking up shards of a glass bottle that shattered on his head when he hears an explosion outside. 

He knows before he sees it. 

The Incredibile is still in decent condition for just having been blown sky high. 

“Oh, no-no-no!” Bob kicks a tire. 

That just makes it worse. 

“Hey, Dicker. It’s Bob. Again. Yeah, can someone come get my car? I think it might’ve been Bomb Voyage, but everyone hates my guts now. Yeah? Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

**May 1, 1946. NSA HQ. Undisclosed Location.**

“Hey Smalls! How’s the car looking?”

Bob hears a crash and a stream of curses. 

The DEA mechanic is great. He’s never actually met the guy face to face. He usually has a welding mask on or is stuck under a car. Bob assumes the nickname has to do with the guy’s size. He’s barely five five and is probably 120 lbs soaking wet.

But, again, that’s just Bob’s guess after seeing him from afar.

“Remote’s on the counter!” Smalls yells from under a car.

“Can I just take it?” Bob says.

“Yeah, it’s your car.”

“Thanks, Man!”

Ooo. He added an aquatic mode.

 

* * *

 

 

**March 24, 1948. Parr Household. Barrioville.**

Bob wakes up at six to the sound of a revving lawn mower, and curses.

“Really?! It’s Sunday!” he groans.

The suburbs were a mistake. The American dream can suck it. Society would be better if humans went back to living in caves and not having lawns. He rolls over to find that Helen is already out of bed.

Which isn’t surprising, she’s had the internal clock of a songbird since she was raised on a farm. Still, it’s their one sleep-in day.

Bob trudges into the kitchen to find her dressed and baking.

“‘Hell’re you doing?” he yawns.

Pod Helen startles, “Oh, good! You’re up. The neighbours are having a barbecue today! We are bringing a jell-o salad.”

She takes out the mould for emphasis. Her grin is enthusiastic and her eyes are pained.

“But, it’s Sunday,” Bob feels like a petulant child. 

“Sunday is the best day to get everyone together,” Pod Helen says. 

“It’s the day we spend in bed together,” he says. 

“There will be other Sundays, Bob. Since you’re up, can you get started on the lawn?”

This is how the mighty Mr. Incredible dies, pushing their tiny mower around the planted grass in his worst pair of khakis. This is it. The American dream. This is what his parents worked so hard to achieve. Bob looks around at the sea of men on their lawns. All white, all in various stages of their lives. 

God, please take the American dream back. 

The sentiment bounces around his head at the backyard barbecue of The Smiths. Wendy and Don. Skinny woman with an airy laugh and her ham of a husband, not that Bob can say much differently of him and Helen. That’s probably them in ten years.

“The Parrs! Always good to invite young couples over,” Don says in a way that gives Bob pause.

“Yeah, thanks for having us,” he says.

Helen’s eyes skirt over Wendy’s exposed thighs before she averts her gaze into the bottom of a glass. He recognizes his wife in Pod Helen for that second and it’s a comfort.

Actually, now that he looks, he can see the discomfort with which Helen adjusts her sundress. She’s shrinking under the judging gazes of the other women. She kisses his cheek before greeting the woman across the street, Cindy, single mother who sells Avon, by the pool. Bob wonders for a second if she’s been screwing her.

“You’re a bouncer, right Bob? And what does Helen do again?” Don asks Bob in front of the barbecue crowd.

“She works in a garage,” Wendy says like a secret.

Bob frowns, “Yeah, she grew up fixing cars and planes with her old man. Good practice for field repairs when she was stationed in India.”

“Yes, but the war’s over and men wants their jobs back,” Wendy says, “Besides, you’re not getting younger, I’m sure you’ll want a wife to raise a family with.”

“Helen is my wife?” Bob says.

“Next you’re gonna tell me she does the barbecuing and you do the cleaning,” Don says.

The group laughs.

Bob feels the heat on the back of his neck. Yes, actually, Helen’s from the South and wouldn’t let his “city slicker ass go near her grill”. Bob’s mom was a cleaning lady and she showed him the best way to get grime out of hard to reach spots. Albeit, Helen’s better at anything hard to reach, and sometimes he scrubs too hard.

“Are you implying I’d be less of a man for knowing how to clean my own damn house?” Bob grinds out.

“Not really the man’s job, is it?” Don says.

The beer bottle Bob’s been drinking out of shatters. Helen’s head whips over and she gives him the ‘Bob, no’ look. He gestures.

Helen arrives, “Hey, Sweetie, silly me, I think I left the stove on.”

“Oh no! Well, Don, it’s been great, but you know how it is with women and appliances,” Bob bares his teeth.

Helen waves a hand in front of her face, embarrassed.

Once in the car, Bob sighs, and leans back, “Jesus, that puts a lot into perspective.”

“You get to leave. I have to go to fuckin’ bridge night with those cows,” his wife finally says, taking a cigarette out of the glove compartment.

Bob doesn’t indulge, instead he rolls the window down and takes the turn out of their suburb.

“Where’re we going?” Helen says.

“We’re gonna get some burgers and watch the sun set over the water,” he replies.

“Thank God.”

“I’m sorry,” Bob says over the Buddy Holly on the radio.

“Sorry about what?” Helen asks.

“I just knew you were different, I didn’t bother to find out why. Didn’t stop to think you might be under attack at home,” Bob says.

“It’s the cost of blending in,” Helen shrugs.

“You don’t have to blend in for me,” Bob says.

“Bob, we can’t go back to the way things were. This has gotta be our life now,” Helen drops her cigarette butt on the freeway and runs a hand through her hair.

“We can settle down without turning into suburban automatons, Hel. I’ve missed the you-you. Not Little Sally Homemaker your mother pushed you into being before the wedding,” Bob says.

“My mother didn’t push me into anything,” Helen retorts. 

“Then explain how you changed immediately after she showed up to help with preparations,” Bob says.

Helen chews the corner of her mouth, “She just reminded me of how the world is, that’s all.”

“And how is that?”

“A lot more mundane than you and I.”

Bob sighs, pulling in to the drive in with the good shakes, and the cutest girls on skates, “Look, once we get the Incredibile back from Dicker and Smalls, we’ll take a trip up the coast. You and me, no one who knows us, and we can just be ourselves, how does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect, Bobby.”

 

(They conceive Violet in the back seat that night.)

 

(Bob doesn't get his car back.)

 

* * *

 

  
  


**September 17, 1962. DevTech. Metroville.**

“Evie! Did you see that?” Helen comes charging in. 

Her enthusiasm is infectious. Evelyn smiles back as she watches Elastigirl bounce around the room. 

“God, I haven’t felt like that since I was dropping troops into occupied Asia,” Helen says. 

“You were magnificent! That was some damn fine TV!” Evelyn says.

She watches in adoration as Helen gushes about saving Selick. Helen’s all fire and vinegar, eyes bright as she does the play by play of her rescue.

“And, I know I shouldn’t be so happy about thwarting the assassination attempt, because there was an attempted assassination in the first place. But, Evie, it was just so electrifying,” Helen grabs the ends of her shirt.

“You’re allowed to be excited by a job well done,” Evelyn says.

“She could have died,” Helen’s face falls.

Spurred forward by the need to see that cheeky smile again, Evelyn grabs Helen’s chin and locks their eyes.

“She didn’t die, because you saved her.”

“I did,” Helen’s voice is low, almost in awe of herself.

“So, come on, let’s celebrate!”

Evelyn drags Helen over to the couch and nudges her to sit down while she pours the drinks. 

Maybe it’s the amber alcohol. Maybe it’s the friendly pokes and prods that turn into lingering touches. An elbow to the rib on drink number one becomes a hand on the thigh for drink number three. Maybe it’s the low voices and the heads moving together to be heard in the almost reverent quiet. Maybe it’s the high after a win like today.

Maybe it’s a combination of all the above.

But, Helen’s wondering what exactly has been holding her back from just giving in to the tension that’s been building to them. To let hold and cold meet in a thunderstorm of wet sex.

Abruptly, Evelyn squeezes Helen’s knee, breaking her out of her haze.

“Well, it’s late. I’m going to head to bed, you’re welcome to join me,” Evelyn says.

There’s the proposition. A simple invitation.

Her eyes are warm, hopeful, and shy.

_ Absolutely,  _ Helen wants to say.

_ Lead the way,  _ she wants to stand and follow Evelyn.

“Have a good night,” Helen says.

Evelyn bites her lip and nods, trying to gather up the pieces of her wounded pride.

She leaves quietly. Helen sits in the lamplight and wonders what the hell is wrong with her.

She slaps her cheeks a few times, trying to channel the daring Helen Truax. The dashing hero who would sweep women off their feet and disappear before dawn. She wants to pretend she still has that charm. That charisma.

The voice of her self-esteem sounds a lot like Edna Mode.

_ “Don’t you know who you are? You’re Elastigirl! The people have been eating out of your hand since you got back. You never lost your charm, Helen, you just tried to hide it under layers of motherly self-sacrifice!” _

Helen marches to Evelyn’s room with purpose.

There’s still a stripe of light under the door. Before she can second guess herself, she’s knocking on the door.

Evelyn’s still in her day clothes and smelling of cigarettes when she opens the door.

“Helen, did you forget something?” she sounds genuinely confused.

“Yeah, I forgot to do this,” Helen pushes the door open and wraps herself around Evelyn.

The smaller woman squeaks, eyes wide and disbelieving. Helen traces a finger from forehead to chin, thumb brushing Evelyn’s lower lip. Their eyes lock, intent known and permission given.

God, Helen’s missed women.

Evelyn’s mouth is just as achingly plush as it looks. Helen wants to taste and mark the soft, sweet smelling skin at the crook of Evelyn’s neck and between her breasts. But, she just can’t tear herself away from her mouth. 

“Where do you want me?” Helen manages to say between kisses. 

“God, everywhere,” Evelyn mewls. 

Helen growls deep in her throat and rips Evelyn’s blouse, popping all but one button off. 

It turns out she can free her mouth from Evelyn’s lips if bare breasts are involved. 

God, she’s missed breasts. The salt of sweat gathered between them. The contrast between hard, puckering nipples and soft skin. 

Helen Parr is not having an affair. 

Helen Parr’s husband knows where she is and who she’s doing. 

And, Bob would be thrilled she’s letting herself have this. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory time for Bob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is later than usual. And short. I've been dedicating all of my energy to getting an agent to represent my book *screams* anyway, if anyone knows any literary agents open to second pov queer horror let a sister know in the comments down below.

**September 17, 1962. DevTech Suites. Metroville.**

God, Helen’s missed women.

Evelyn’s skin is soft and smells faintly of stale coffee. Helen licks the soft, blonde hairs on her neck and jaw. Helen finds traces of perfume on the other woman’s pulse and laps it up, despite it stinging her throat.

Evelyn, usually so quiet, tilts her head back and makes this choked moan.

It’s delicious.

Helen groans in return, too excited to sample everything she’s deprived herself of twenty years.

It’s been fine. Really. Bob’s fantastic.

But, Helen thinks as she works on removing Evelyn’s bra with her teeth and latching on to a blush pink nipple, it’s true, her talents have been going to waste.

_ “Elastigirl,”  _ Evelyn gasps.

Helen pauses for a split second and Evelyn’s eyes open in fear. Helen pulls back and looks Evelyn in the eye.

“Say it again,” she rasps.

“Elastigirl?”

Helen unzips Evelyn’s slacks. She grabs Evelyn by the chin, holding her face in place as she presses a finger to the other woman’s mouth. Evelyn accepts the still gloved digit, wetting it with her lips and tongue.

“Good girl,” Helen says.

Evelyn keeps the eye contact, even as Helen descends, dragging her mouth down a path from her sternum, pausing to kiss navel and hipbones, then shucking slacks and underwear off in one motion.

“Hang on, can I sit down?” Evelyn says.

Helen laughs a little huff, “By all means. You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you, let alone stand.”

Then, in a moment of spontaneity, Helen grabs Evelyn around the thighs and picks her up. Evelyn makes an undignified yelp and grabs onto Helen’s shoulders as she’s carried to the bed and dropped in a heap.

“Better?” Helen says.

“Much,” Evelyn settles back on her elbows and directs all the heat in her gaze to the other woman.

On one hand, Helen could wind Evelyn up, then unwind her at an agonizing and intense pace. On the other hand, she could ravish her quickly, barely leaving her time to breathe between screams.

Then Helen remembers they have all night and she can use both hands.

Evelyn’s thighs part revealing chalky inner skin and dripping curls. Helen feels her mouth water. Ravish first. Then she’ll see what makes Evelyn Deavor tick.

Her tongue touches the first taste of cunt she’s had in years and it feels like a hallelujah. 

 

**September 18, 1962. DevTech Suites. Metroville.**

Evelyn’s splayed against the pillows, soft lips parted and hair mussed more than usual. Helen brushes a lock of hair away from Evelyn’s ear and presses a kiss there before getting up to shower.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Evelyn rasps, wincing as she moves to get up.

“I’ll be right back,” Helen says.

“You’d better, I still owe you payback for that thing you did with your tongue,” Evelyn reaches for a cigarette from the night table.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Helen says, sure to add a little more sashay to her walk as she leaves for the bathroom.

“Tease!”

 

* * *

 

 

**April 2, 1944. Dynamo’s Diner. Metroville.**

“I’ll have the all day breakfast special and a piece of boysenberry pie for dessert,” Hank says.

Bob smiles at the waitress, Margaret, “That’s my sister’s name,” he says.

“You mentioned. Want more coffee?” she says.

Bob smiles and moves his cup under the stream.

“Please, and I’ll have what he’s having, but with the apple… ala mode.”

“Sure thing, Hon,” Margaret doesn’t bother writing it down.

Bob watches Hank build a tower out of salt shakers and knives. The man can’t read, but he sure can stack things high.

“You okay, Bob?” Hank says.

“Yeah, the rain just makes me moody ‘s all,” Bob stirs his coffee.

“You know we can talk if you need to talk.”

“Just, thinking… yesterday was the anniversary of my parents’ separation. And, I’m still thinking about Lisa,” Bob winces.

Hank just listens.

“I don’t think love is a real thing. Not in the way it is in the pictures or books. I think humans were a lot happier when we didn’t expect happy endings,” Bob sighs.

“Well, me and Richard have been married for ten years and we’re very happy,” Hank says.

Bob winces because it’s A Thing that he doesn’t want to make a big deal of, “Yeah, but it’s not a real marriage. You can leave whenever you want.”

Hank raises his brows, “It’s real marriage to me. And, I’m gonna tell you a secret Bob.”

Bob looks at him from under his eyebrows.

“Come closer.”

Bob does.

Hank whispers, “You can leave any marriage whenever you want.”

“Then I don’t see the point. Why does anyone stay with anyone then?” Bob feels like a kid for asking.

“‘Cause otherwise life gets lonely,” Hank shrugs, “Or, if Richard were here, he’d explain the ecology of it. Money stuff, I don’t get.”

“Ecology? Oh, you mean economics,” Bob says.

“Yeah, that.”

Margaret returns with their food and Hank takes down his tower. They’re quiet through cutting eggs and sausage. Bob makes delicate cuts, careful not to put too much pressure and break through the plate.

“What’s your secret then?” Bob says.

Hank looks up from his plate, “What? My secret identity? I’m Thunderhead, duh.”

Bob laughs, “No, I mean, how have you and Richard been married for twenty years?”

Hank’s smile is small, “He’s nice. He always looks out for me and I look out for him, so I wouldn’t want any other husband.”

“There haven’t been other people you’ve thought about it with?” Bob bites into a piece of toast.

“Not marriage. There’ve been guys I’ve fooled around with. Guys he’s dated.”

“Wait, you dated other people while married to each other?” Bob feels his brain halting to a stop.

“Well, yeah. You can’t help being attracted to other people, but Richard’s the man I have a house and a family with.”

Bob squints at Hank for a good two minutes. The other man just tucks into his food.

“But you… he… isn’t that cheating?”

“Not if we clear it with each other first. Like, Richard would be okay if I had sex with you, but that’s not gonna happen because you’re really straight.”

“But that would be cheating!” Bob reminds himself to lower his voice.

“Bob, not all sex outside of a marriage is cheating,” Hank drops his fork and swears.

“Wait, what do you mean I’m too straight for you to cheat with?” Bob asks, oddly offended.

Hank ignores him, “Your problem with women is that you always date strangers then break up before they can really know you. You need to date a friend.”

“I can be bold, I could kiss a man if I wanted,” Bob’s still defending himself.

“You should ask Helen on a date.”

Bob chokes on his coffee, “Helen? That’s a good one. You know that she’s like you right? I’m not exactly her type.”

“I know you’re not her usual type. Her type is her problem. She’s gonna run out of smart, mean lesbians one of these days and need someone to actually love.”

Bob snorts embarrassingly into his coffee because--yeah, Helen has a type. Sure, she’ll take any doe-eyed gal home, but always ends up in these fraught relationships with frigid intellectuals. 

“She’s one of my best friends,” Bob says, rubbing his chin.

“That’s why you should ask her on a date,” Hank says.

Bob just shrugs and cuts into a pancake.

 

* * *

 

 

**April 1, 1926. The Parr Household. Spokane, Washington.**

“I gave her everything, and still, I wasn’t enough,” William Parr sighs.

He sits next to his eldest on the stoop and watches his wife get into a taxi with her things and disappear.

And, Bobby Parr? He doesn’t know what to think. He knows that his mama tried to take him and Maggie with her. He knows that his dad hits hard for such a skinny guy. He knows that he’s never gonna get married, because watching his parents relationship dissolve is something he never wants to put other children through.

And, he knows that it’s going to be his job to be his father’s punching bag now that his mother’s gone. Maggie deserves that much.

“Women, they just take and lie. Never let one close enough to get a knife in ya, Robert. You hear me?” William says.

Bobby doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

 

* * *

 

 

**April 16, 1944. Bob’s Apartment. Metroville.**

“Come on, again, you’re holding back,” Helen pants.

Bob rolls onto his side to discard the condom into the trash, still panting himself.

“I’m a guy, Helen, I can’t just be ready to go again and again.”

“Not with that attitude,” she says.

She puts her hair up into a short ponytail and settles cross-legged beside him. He strokes her back, waiting to catch another wind.

“Hey, are we going steady?” he asks.

She looks down at him and considers it, “Well, we’ve slept together every night this week. Do you want to be going steady?”

Bob makes a noise and avoids eye contact.

“I’m interested in doing my own thing right now anyway, you know maybe I’ll see what Psycwave’s up to,” Helen says.

“No!” Bob sits up.

She smirks at him, “You’re so full of shit, Parr.”

“I’m worried about being bad at this, okay?” he says.

“Being bad at sex? Because I think you might be the only man your size capable of finding the clitoris,” she says.

Bob turns red, “You know that’s not what I mean. My dad… my dad’s a real asshole, and my mom left when I was just a kid. She tried sticking it out and getting a job in the city, but gave up and went back to Poland.”

Helen pauses and looks at him with soft eyes, “Did she…?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t get out before the Germans invaded. Probably,” he rubs his eyes.

Helen gathers him up in her arms, “I wish I was there right now,” she says, “I feel so damn helpless not helping them win.”

“I couldn’t join. I kept breaking all of the equipment. They thought I was more trouble than I’m worth,” Bob admits.

“You’re not,” she kisses his cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

**May 15, 1963. The Parr Household.**

“Capes? Shit, really? I thought it might’ve been McCarthy’s goons,” Evelyn says.

It’s a sunny day. The kind of late spring day where the grass is still wet in the morning, but it’s hot enough for short sleeves.

A blur returns with a ball and tosses it back into the contraption currently firing tennis balls at the forest at a high speed.

“Come on, Buddy, I know you can go faster!” Bob cheers.

Dash speeds up.

Bob swirls his ice tea and bounces Jack-Jack, “No, uh, wardrobe malfunction. Capes get caught on everything, slow you down. Sorry, what did you say about McCarthy?” 

Evelyn shrugs, folding her arms under her breasts, “Anyone and everyone was under the microscope for being ‘un-American’ those days. Can’t imagine they were too happy with deviant superheroes. I just assumed they took him out.”

Bob frowns, feeling that hit his chest like a train, “No. Hank. He was a good guy, he was distracted while disarming the missile is all.”

Evelyn’s looking at him through shaded eyes. He sets Jack-Jack down who goes tottering over to the tennis ball machine.

“You know something,” Bob says.

“I worked for the NSA. I helped them build a contingency plan for each of you in case anyone went rogue. I went along with it because, hey, they’re right. If a super goes off the deep end then they can cause as much damage as a weapon of mass destruction. At the time I didn’t think about it much. Winston though, he lost sleep over it,” she says.

Bob runs a hand over his face, “Their deaths were accidents.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she leans into him.

There’s a bang followed by some giggling and both jerk to look. The machine’s broken and Dash is flopped out, winded by the explosion. Jack-Jack giggles, holding a tennis ball.

Bob goes rushing over, making sure his sons have all of their limbs attached and organs intact. Dash is taking shallow breaths.

“Hey, hey, Buddy, are you okay?” Bob says, trying not to freak out.

“Hurts to breathe,” Dash says.

“Evie, help!” Bob says.

Evelyn jogs from inspecting the machine to checking Dash. Her fingers prod his ribs gently and run over his stomach.

“It hurts right here right?” she asks, tapping his sternum.

“Yeah,” Dash says.

She exhales, “You’re just winded. Like when you run too fast.”

Dash nods, tears disappearing from his eyes. The tension eases from Bob’s body.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs.

“Just an accident,” Evelyn says.

**Author's Note:**

> Youtuber voice: Don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe.


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